


The Letter

by orphan_account



Category: Poirot - Agatha Christie
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-16
Updated: 2012-07-16
Packaged: 2017-11-10 02:27:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/461246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Poirot and Hastings run into a minor problem when replying to a letter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Letter

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in Cicero's AU, a few years after "All The Days Of My Life". A completely unofficial addition to that AU. Inspired by an episode of "The Daily Politics", of all things, where they showed a promotional clip of the census in 1951. Only I can be inspired by a show such as "The Daily Politics".

It was relatively late in the morning when the letter came. Poirot was settled on the chaise-longue, quietly reading. Hastings was stretched out on the sofa, seemingly lost in thought. Miss Lemon had a day off today - she had an appointment with her dentist - so when the post came through the door, it was Hastings who picked it up.

"I say, this looks interesting Poirot." he said as he walked back into the living room. Poirot looked up at him from his book.

"What is it,  _mon ami_ _?"_ In reply, Hastings held up the only piece of post in his hand - an official-looking envelope, thick with the amount of paper inside. "The Household" was emblazoned on the front, followed by their address in a small, printed font. Poirot raised an eyebrow in interest.

"I wonder what it is..." Hastings murmured as he tore the envelope open. Poirot watched as Hastings pulled out a wad of paper, including another envelope, this one empty. Hastings opened the letter, and scanned it with interest. 

"Oh!" he exclaimed, after reading for a minute or two. "It's the census, Poirot! They were talking about it on the radio earlier."

"Ah yes," Poirot replied. "It was to arrive today, I believe they said."

"I'd entirely forgotten, to be honest."Hastings answered ruefully. He carefully sat at Poirot's desk and lay the paper on its surface. Poirot had only let him use the desk on the strict rule that he did not touch anything which was not his (which was, in essence, everything) and tidied everything away afterwards. Hastings had not broken any of these rules yet - but then again he rarely used the desk, choosing to sort most of his mail on the coffee table.

"Could I borrow a pen of yours, Poirot? Just to fill this in."

" _Oui,_ if you wish." Hastings plucked a gold-tipped fountain pen from the pot in which Poirot kept any writing utensils. He unscrewed the lid and began to fill in the form, murmuring all the while.

"Name... age... Head of the family? I suppose that's _you,_ Poirot, seeing as the flat's in your name..."

" _C'est vrai._ " Hastings smiled at him in reply, before turning back to the piece of paper in front of him and scribbling a few words down. The scratchy sound of pen against paper filled the flat as Hastings industriously got on with his task. Poirot returned to his book, but after around ten minutes, he noticed that the sound of writing had stopped. He curiously looked up towards Hastings.

The other man was gently running his thumb across something in his palm, which upon closer inspection, revealed itself to be the box in which their wedding rings were kept. It was only a few years ago that they were wed in Poirot's home country of Belgium, and these rings had bound them together in holy matrimony. But when they had returned to London, they both had decided that wearing them in public would raise questions, and had them kept on Poirot's desk, where they would always be reminded of what they shared. It was a box that contained a happy, cherished memory. But Hastings was regarding the box with such a forlorn expression that Poirot felt he had to speak up.

" _Ca va_ , Hastings? What has you troubled?"

Hastings jumped a little, having gotten lost in his thoughts. He smiled weakly at the other man, which did nothing to reassure Poirot.

"It's just this census, Poirot..." Hastings said, putting the ring box back down by the clock. "How do I describe my relation to you?"

" _Comment?"_

 _"_ I mean, I can't write that I'm your husband, but 'boarder' sounds so... so..." Hastings did a motion with his hands, which Poirot took to mean 'unpleasant'. Poirot understood exactly how Hastings felt at this moment - they both disliked how they had to hide their marriage, Hastings most especially, but the ramifications that would occur to both them and their friends were too great to even think about risking.

"Unfortunately, _mon cher_ ," Poirot replied sadly, getting up from his seat and approaching the desk. "You must write that you are a boarder, and that you are unmarried."

"But I _am_ married," Hastings whined piteously as Poirot came to stand by his side. "I'm married to _you._ "

Lacking anything to say, Poirot simple lay a hand on the small of his friend's back. Hastings sighed, and rested his head against Poirot's chest for a minute, drawing any comfort he could from the other man, before picking up the pen again and filling in the gaps with obvious reluctance. When he was done, both men simply looked at the black ink that hid their true relation - not that of a "boarder" but that of a "husband".

"I don't like it, Hercule. Not one bit." Hastings said quietly, leaning against him as he spoke.

"Nor I, _mon_ Arthur." Poirot replied, sliding his hand so that his arm was fully around the younger man. "But it must be done."

"Mmm." Seeing that Hastings was still a little out of sorts, Poirot lent forwards and plucked the small ring box from its position beside the clock. Opening it, he pulled out the simple ring that belonged to his dearest husband. The line of obsidian an diamond glittered in the sunlight as he held it between his thumb and forefinger.

"Perhaps your country does not recognize what we have, _mon ange_ , but you and I both know what we have." Poirot gently lifted his partner's hand and slid the ring onto his finger, pulling him closer and pressing a light kiss to the top of his head as he did so. " _Tout ce qui je faut, c'est ton amour."_

Hastings smiled as the comforting weight of the ring hugged his finger. He picked up the other ring and slipped it onto Poirot's waiting hand, before entwining their fingers. The topaz and obsidian glimmered together on their fingers, the rings a sign of their ever-lasting love. Perhaps they would not live to see the day when a love like theirs would be recognized by this country, but they recognized it as the beauty it was, and that was what mattered.

And, really, that was all they ever needed.

**Translations**

_Et tout ce qu'il me faut, c'est ton amour_ \- All that I need is your love.


End file.
